Shootout
by geraldine01
Summary: Johnny and Scott take refuge in a cantina where they are thrown into a dangerous situation. Johnny is badly wounded and Scott is desperate to save his brother. Based upon the classic Starsky & Hutch episode, Shootout. Hurt/comfort, mild violence, drama. 5 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Fandom: Lancer  
Title: Shootout  
Rating: PG  
Genre: Brothers, adventure, Christmas, h/c  
13,000 words, 5 chapters

A/N: After watching the _Starsky &amp; Hutch_ episode called _Shootout_, I thought, I can see this as a Johnny &amp; Scott story! So, basing this upon the transcript, I changed it to reflect the times and exchanged S&amp;H for Johnny and Scott Lancer, adding dialog and my own slant on the story.

• Written many years ago, I dusted off this story - although I haven't done any updating to it. I just noticed that it has two points of view, which I didn't remember. Hmm. Comments are always welcome and appreciated no matter how long ago it was written!

**Shootout  
Chapter 1**

"I need food, Scott. I'm starvin'!"

"Can't you wait to get home, Johnny? Lancer's not that far now."

"You said that hours ago, back when the sun was setting, and it seems like we're no closer to being home and no closer to getting some grub!"

"Look, Johnny, we've been pushing these horses as hard as we can –."

"So it makes sense that we stop and rest them up, right? There's a town just over the ridge," Johnny wheedled. "We'll stop just long enough to get some eats at the cantina and we'll push on."

Scott pushed his hat back off his forehead and tiredly wiped his brow. "Tonight is Christmas Eve and I wanted to spend it with the family. At this rate we'll be lucky if we get there in time to open our gifts tomorrow morning. I just don't want to miss being with my family," he said wearily. "All right, I guess we'd better get some food. I can hear your stomach rumbling from over here."

"That ain't my stomach growling, Scott."

Scott looked puzzled. "Then what's that noise?"

Johnny raised his face to the dark night. "Thunder. Felt a raindrop, too. We'd better get a move on, brother."

As the Lancer brothers spurred their exhausted mounts towards the twinkling lights of the nearby town, Scott called out, "What's the name of this town?"

"Uh… Schuttehaut? Oh, Shootout," was Johnny's reply, accompanied by wry laughter, as they passed a sign that read 'Welcome to Schuttehaut.'

~ • ~

The Blue Dove Cantina was the first building they came to, sitting right at the edge of town. The street was silent with only a few lights showing in the windows of the houses. They sheltered their horses alongside a handful of other animals in a lean-to at the side of the stucco building. Just as the Lancers dismounted, there was a clap of thunder and the heavens let go of the rain with a rush.

It was not busy in the small restaurant, due to the late hour and the rainstorm, although it appeared to be a decent establishment. There were even calico tablecloths on the tables in the cozy dining room, giving it a homey feeling. A waitress was busy serving a couple of men occupying a table in the far corner when Johnny and Scott entered, so they seated themselves at a table near the door.

"Hey, Scott?" asked Johnny, sniffing the aroma drifting from the direction of the kitchen. "You know what this place reminds me of?"

"Your grandmother's kitchen," Scott replied with a smile.

"Si, la cocina de mi abuela. How'd you know?"

"Because you say the same thing about every cantina we go to. 'Just like my grandmother's kitchen.' Smells bring back memories like no other sense can, so they say. All I can smell right now is sweat and horses. First thing I am going to do when I get home is find a bath."

Johnny had a far-away look on his face. "I wasn't very old when I used to go with my Mama to visit my abuela, my grandmother, but I remember sitting in her kitchen shelling peas. She'd say, 'Idle hands made light work for the Devil.'"

Scott looked pointedly at his brother. "Somehow I doubt she knew how you would take that to heart when you got older, little brother."

Johnny snorted and shrugged off his coat. "Poco ella sabía. Little did she know," he agreed. "I think the only reason my mother took me along was so the old lady would give her a little extra money when we left."

The waitress was a young woman in her early twenties, with long dark hair tied back with a ribbon, a full-skirted red dress covered with a starched white apron. As soon as she saw the new customers, she hurried over to their table. She offered them a limited choice of dishes, and an even more limited selection of drinks. "It's sort of late, gentlemen, but the cook's still back there and for a change hasn't drunk all the wine on hand. Lamb stew is on the stove. The beefsteak is getting a little green around the edges but the cook can sear it." The dark-haired young woman cast a glance towards the door as if expecting more customers as she asked, "You want coffee or Valle de Guadalupe? That's our house wine, made by the padres over at St. Tomas's."

Johnny ordered for both of them. "Tamales, some of that stew, and un crisol grande de café. Bread, if you have any that isn't too old. And it looks like my brother wants to try your wine, too. Bring him a jug and let's hope we can still make it home for Christmas."

Scott enquired, "Isn't it a bit late for you to be working, and alone?"

She looked startled for a second, then recovered. "The owner is out of town, visiting family. We're staying open for a special customer. Anything else?"

Scott shook his head and wished her a merry Christmas. She allowed a small smile and went to the kitchen, calling out the order to the cook.

Once the waitress had gone, Johnny started looking around the room, seeking something. Scott half-smiled and said, "Back there, down the hall, past the kitchen door, I expect."

"What is?"

"The johnny."

"Scott, Anyone ever tell you you're a ray of sunshine?" Johnny asked with a laugh, then made his way down the dark passage to seek the outhouse.

~ • ~

Scott casually observed the two men who were eating in a dark corner of the room, heads close as they talked intently. One appeared to be somewhat older than the other, but even from this distance he held considerable authority. Scott couldn't hear their conversation, but something in the way the men were talking suggested they were neither related to each other nor very fond of each other. Their animosity was clear right across the dining room.

There was no sign of Johnny returning, so Scott rose and made his way to the bar to see if he could pour himself a beer. There was no bartender at this late hour, but the waitress appeared as if on cue and immediately pulled a bottle of wine from under the counter. "Valle de Guadalupe," she said, as she worked the cork from the bottle. There was a shout from the kitchen that an order was ready, so she hurried away and left Scott to pour his own wine.

He wondered if Johnny had found the outhouse or if he'd stumbled into some trouble he'd need extricating from, once again. This was exactly the kind of delay Scott had been afraid of. By the time they finished eating and got back on the road it would be close to midnight. They had another couple of hours' worth of riding to do, and he did not look forward to traveling in the rain. He'd told Johnny right from the start that he didn't want to miss Christmas at the ranch. Scott's annoyance was rising when he heard the footsteps behind him. "What happened? You fall in a hole or someth –?" Scott started to turn from the bar but he stiffened as a hard shaft of steel was jammed in his ribs.

"Don't move a muscle," a man's steely voice commanded.

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott could see the gray hair of the older man who had been sitting in the corner just a minute ago.

"Don't move," the man ordered. "I've got a gun on you. Put both hands on top of the bar. Both hands." A glance down offered Scott the view of a revolver prodding his side, held in a businesslike way by a steady hand. He felt his own gun being whisked from its holster and hope sank rapidly.

The voice in his ear was low and confident. "You do as I tell you and we'll all get along fine. Yes?"

Scott nodded and wondered if he'd have any warning of Johnny's return and be able to call out to him. The sound of the rain pummeling the rooftop was drowning out sound, and had been enough cover for this man to get the better of him.

"Back to your table, slowly."

The older man's partner moved out into the light at that point, and Scott could plainly see the gun in his hand and a look of enjoyment on his face. He didn't take either as a good sign.

"Joey, get back and keep an eye on the door," the older man ordered as he took a firm hold of Scott's arm just above the elbow.

The young one hesitated before taking a step back. He stopped and called out urgently, "It ain't that one we should worry about, Lockley, it's that punk Madrid."

Desperately trying to figure out what he and Johnny had stumbled into, Scott attempted to turn, but his arm was mercilessly pulled back and up. Even as he gasped in pain, he got out, "I don't know what you're after but we don't have any money–."

"Shut up and move." Lockley stuck Scott's gun in his coat pocket as he propelled Scott forward.

As Scott approached their table, Johnny, hair and shoulders wet from the rain, strode into the room, calling out, "That outhouse was a block away and so dark I think I stepped on a –." Johnny looked up and saw the stranger with a drawn revolver pointing at Scott and immediately went into action, crouching as he drew his own weapon.

As Johnny's gun cleared leather, Scott shouted out a warning to his brother. "Look out! There's another one behind you!" In desperation, he elbowed the man at his side and tore his arm out of the viselike grip. As he broke away, a blow struck him hard between the shoulders and he crashed to the tile floor.

The kitchen door flew open and the waitress came out fast. Johnny pushed her out of harm's way with a sweep of his arm, even as he let off a shot at the man who had struck Scott down. Turning, Johnny fanned his gun at the younger shooter, then veered to his right, making for the cover of the bar. Gunshots roared deafeningly in the small dining room and black powder filled the air.

As Scott struggled to his feet, planning on tackling Lockley, another shot rang out from Joey's gun. He was horrified to see Johnny's body jerk back and fall heavily to the ground.

"Johnny!" Scott rushed forward, his only thought to get to Johnny's side and help him, but Joey moved faster and got between the brothers.

Raising his gun to Scott's face, the young gunman smiled with corrupt pleasure. "You want to join your partner? Looking for a way out? I'll help you." Scott saw the hammer being cocked, only inches in front of his eyes, and froze.

Behind him came a warning voice, full of authority. "Don't do it, Joey. You've done enough. We don't have time for this." Lockley commanded in a level tone, "Just get rid of the body before Montgomery comes." When Joey hesitated but didn't move, Lockley reiterated, "Joey! Get rid of Madrid's body. I'll take care of this one."

The outer door swung open and a dapper man strode in, laughing to the attractive woman he was escorting to a late dinner. They stopped in their tracks at the sight of the drawn guns and the body on the floor, then hastily started to retreat.

Lockley casually threatened them with his pistol. "Don't try it, folks. Make a smart decision and get over there." He indicated they should come in and sit down at a side table. With wide eyes, clinging to each other, the couple obeyed.

The young waitress cautiously emerged from behind the kitchen door, cringing as she stepped around Johnny's prone body. She barely glanced at the reluctant customers who were huddled in the corner as she made for Lockley's side. "You said it would only be Montgomery!" she cried.

Lockley, his eyes never ceasing to watch Scott, reassured her and threatened her in the same breath. "Couldn't be helped. Remember, you have to think of your mother, Theresa. You stay where you are, Blondie."

Joey leaned over Johnny, roughly rolled him on his side and pulled his six-shooter out from his limp hand. As Joey stood up and moved away, the wounded man's flaccid body returned to its facedown position.

Scott didn't take his eyes off Joey as he gauged what tactics would be best. He knew his type: arrogant, totally without morals, and extremely dangerous in his unpredictability. Lockley was a different kind of dangerous. He was calculating and professional, nothing like his loose cannon partner. Against all reason, Scott said evenly, "I don't care what your business is here tonight. I'm going to my brother."

Lockley said, slight amusement in his voice, "All right, go ahead. Go ahead." He motioned with his head towards Johnny, lying in the entrance of the dark passageway.

Joey rebelled. "Ah, no you don't! I say we plug him."

Scott, taking a deep breath, stood his ground. "If you're going to kill me, you'd better do it now."

The young gunman smiled wolfishly, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Lockley interrupted. "Joey, the cook has probably hot-footed out the back door by now. I want you to go take care of him."

Joey didn't move or break eye contact with Scott, enjoying the battle of wills they were engaged in.

Lockley stepped in expertly, smoothly placing his hand over Joey's raised gun, stopping the action of the hammer. "Joey, remember what we're here for," he hissed.

Joey's look of annoyance faltered as he faced his partner. Whatever he saw there was enough to cause uncertainty and his gun was slowly and reluctantly lowered.

Lockley's voice was terse as he commanded, "Joey. The man in the kitchen. Now!" As Joey slowly moved off towards the kitchen, the older man called after him, "No guns, and no noise."

Scott took the opportunity to brush past the gunman to get to Johnny's side. Kneeling, he quickly ran his hands over his brother, seeking the wound he was afraid to find. The fear in the pit of Scott's stomach lessened only slightly when he saw Johnny's arm twitch and heard a slight moan, barely more than an expelled breath. "Hey, Johnny. It's okay. I'm right here. I'm right here," he reassured him.

Johnny raised his hand to his head, his fumbling fingers touching the furrow left by his attacker's bullet. He jerked and groaned, mumbling, "Oh, my head. . ." Scott reached up to grab a tablecloth off the nearest table and dipped it in water from a tin pitcher. He held it to his brother's temple, where even in the dim light, blood could be seen mingling with the dark hair.

Johnny mumbled again, this time his words clearer. "I messed up? You get the bad guys?" His eyes opened and for a lucid moment he stared past Scott at the gunman standing a few feet away.

"More like they got us," Scott admitted.

From the kitchen came the sound of scuffling, a muffled shout, then the slamming of a door. Joey reappeared, looking satisfied. Lockley asked about the cook and Joey absently replied he was now locked safely in the wine cellar.

Trying to staunch the bleeding head wound, Scott pressed a wadded cloth to Johnny's scalp with one hand while he ran his other over his brother's body, seeking any other injuries.

Behind him, the gunmen were quarreling quietly, but the older one got the upper hand. Only listening with half an ear, Scott took in that they were waiting for a local rancher, Montgomery, to come to the cantina for a scheduled late meal. The man who was their intended victim was going to walk into a Christmas Eve dinner – and an untimely end.

With closed eyes, breathing heavily, Johnny asked, "How d' I look? Huh?"

Moving behind Johnny, checking his brother's torso, Scott replied lightly, "One of them bounced off that thick skull of yours."

Johnny gasped and groaned loudly when Scott's fingers touched his back, in a place below his shoulder blade. The wounded man was lying on his side and although it was too dark for Scott to see anything, he could feel the sticky wetness on Johnny's back that experience told him was blood.

Johnny repeated his question. "How d' I look, Scott?"

"Looks like another one found. . .your shoulder." Scott cursed himself for hesitating, but Johnny didn't seem to catch it. Wadding another tablecloth up, he pressed it to the wound.

"Hey, is that all? Shoulder's nuthin'. Get it there all the time." He started to chuckle but it turned into a series of coughs and wracked his body with pain.

Scott held his brother close until the coughing stopped, then turned to look intently at the gunmen. "I need to get him some help," he insisted, even as he knew his plea would do little good. "He's hurt bad and he's going to die right here on the floor unless I get him to a doctor."

Joey stared at Johnny, who was twitching in Scott's arms. "Your brother? Madrid is your kin?"

"Who the Hell did you think we were?" asked Scott.

"We thought you was bounty hunters or something. I recognized Madrid and knew when the action started he might take the wrong side, is all." Joey shrugged. " Nothing personal. Just business."

Scott locked eyes with the young gunman. He forced himself to remain as calm as possible when all he wanted to do was take a dull knife to the leering and dangerous snake. He repeated, "He needs a doctor now!"

"You just said it's only a shoulder wound," Lockley pointed out.

Joey watched, fascinated, as Johnny's legs jerked, even as Scott held him close. "Why's Madrid twitchin' like that?"

Scott ignored him, meeting only Lockley's eyes. "Look, I don't know who you are or why you're here, and I don't care. What I do know is that my brother here has got a bullet in his back. If he doesn't get help now, you're going to have a dead man on your hands. And not just some gunslinger with a reputation. Not Johnny Madrid, but Johnny Lancer, the son of Murdoch Lancer. If the thought of the biggest rancher in the county, with enough pull to get a posse of Rangers saddled and hot on your trail so fast it'd make you dizzy, isn't enough to scare you, then picture Lancer himself coming after you for letting his favorite son bleed to death on a cantina floor on Christmas Eve!"

Joey moved to his partner's side. "Hey, uh, maybe he's right. Maybe we oughtta get out of here while we can."

The slim hope Scott had that the two hired killers would just leave was dashed quickly by Lockley's statement. "It's too late to back out now."

Johnny's free arm flailed about as he unsuccessfully tried to reach his own back. His eyes were closed and a sheen of sweat glistened on his face. Scott, kneeling behind him, tried to keep pressure on both of the wounds. "Take it easy, Johnny. I'm here." He looked up and unintentionally implored Lockley with his eyes.

Scott never knew if it was some small bit of mercy, a touch of holiday spirit, or just plain sense to get the bleeding victim out of sight, but relief washed over him at Lockley's next words.

"Theresa, is there any place we can put him?"

The waitress came forward and pointed out a small office at the rear of the restaurant. Lockley briskly gave orders and Scott leaned over his brother, got a good grip on him, and with a heave, lifted him into his arms.

~ • ~


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for the reviews, all you anon or not-signed in folks. Sorry I can't respond directly to each and every one of you, but I do enjoy knowing people are still reading my stories.

**Chapter 2**

"I need towels, cloths, water!" Scott barked commands as he carried me to the back room. I don't know how he managed, 'cause I'm no lightweight, but the urgency of his actions was either fueled by adrenaline or the fear he'd drop me and make a mess out his chivalric act.

The pressure from the arm clutching me across my back was sending intense shafts of pain through my entire body, knife-hot right down to my legs. I couldn't even get a breath to cry out, the pain was so blinding. Mercifully, Scott finally put me down, and in my relief I let out a moan.

Scott said something intending to ease me, I guess, but no way did it make any difference. Every breath I drew was agony. I heard that back-shooter, Joey, speaking from the doorway. "Listen, I can put your brother out of his misery for ya." He sort of laughed but there was little humor in it. Even hurting as I was, and pretty involved in my own pain, I still wanted to go over and show him what misery could be like. Funny how I felt that almost as intensely as the jabs of pain in my back.

"Get the Hell out of here," Scott ordered in a deadly voice.

I wanted to tell Scott 'that's the way to go', but I couldn't make any words come out. I tried to move, to get away from the pain in my back, but it only made it worse. I must have cried out again 'cause there was a gentle hand laid on my arm to hush me.

"Johnny, Johnny, try to be still, okay?" His voice was husky. I opened my eyes and took in my brother's face. He had that look I'd seen too often: a mixture of strength and concern and fear. I realized he thought I was going to die.

Joey spoke from somewhere behind me. "Don't forget, Lancer, when you come out I want to see your hands in the clear, huh?"

Scott ignored him and remained leaning over me as the guy left. I couldn't get a clear picture of what'd happened or why I was lying in a strange place, a dark room that had a couple of pieces of furniture in it, and only one small window, way up high. The walls were swirling around, forcing me to close my eyes again.

Hands on my legs, hoisting them up on the couch. Hurting, tensing up, arching my back and making it so much worse, enough pain that I groaned aloud in protest. "No. . ."

"Don't move, Johnny."

"Scott . . . I feel sick." He pushed something under my head to cushion it. He got a hold of me under my arms, apologetically warning me, "One more time, just one more time," as he pulled my body further up the couch. I almost passed out, it was so excruciating.

There was a clap of thunder so close it rattled the window, and it reminded me that I'd just come in from the rain. I just couldn't recall why I'd been out in it. "Scott? Scott?" My lips felt thick and my words came out all slurred, like I'd been on a bender. My head sure felt like I'd been boozing for a week. "Where are we? Would you tell me what happened?" I asked plaintively.

"Cantina. You got shot, remember?" The cushions sank as Scott sat down on the edge of the couch. I felt him leaning over, then rolling me forward a bit and he started prodding at my shoulder and back again. Every nerve seemed to be on fire and I desperately wanted him to stop, just stop.

He stopped poking at my back and paid attention to my head. "You got a little crease," Scott said lightly.

"Uh? Oh. Oh, my head . . . it hurts." I remembered being shot at, all right. What I really wanted to know was why some local gun hawk had taken potshots at me. I regretted mentioning my aching head 'cause Scott then cupped his hand under my cheek and lifted it a couple of inches off the cushion to peer at it, setting it throbbing even worse.

It took an awful lot of effort to keep my eyes open, but I was trying to gauge Scott's reaction to my condition as well as keep an eye out for more trouble. It looked like they were going to leave us alone for a bit, which was fine with me. I sure needed time to recoup. I shivered even though I felt like I was in a sweat lodge.

I saw Scott trying to smile confidently as he threw an old overcoat across my legs. "You've had worse." Then he turned his head away, muttering impatiently, "Where the Hell's that girl?" He suddenly yelled in the direction of the open door, "Get in here with that stuff!"

Scott, my even-tempered, military-trained, sensible brother, sounded like he was about to lose control.

I winced at the noise. "Hey, you sound like the Old Man," I complained. When he shifted as if to get up, I reached out and held onto his leg, needing him to stay. There was no reason to panic. Not yet, anyway. I felt nauseous, my head was killing me, I had a couple of holes in me and I was running both fever and chills at the same time. There were two cold-blooded killers waiting in the next room to put some lead in my head and Scott's. But we were still alive, so all wasn't lost.

Scott settled back to stay and said, "Sorry," with an understanding smile. I couldn't keep my eyes open and I let the darkness fall over me, the sound of rain rushing loudly in my ears.

"Here are the things you wanted," came the girl's voice, as she hurried into the room. Then Scott was pressing something against my back, hard, hard enough to jerk me out of that comfortable place I'd found.

"Give me your hand," Scott ordered the girl. "Keep pressure on it." I gritted my teeth and looked up at the window, at the blue lightning flashing in the window, at the watery shadows being cast across the room, then at the girl's red dress. Her white apron had dark splotches across it, which I eventually realized must be my blood. I just endured while they bound up my wound, Scott's hand pushing something under my chest and then pulling it tight across my back. I caught sight of some calico just like the tablecloths that'd been draped across the tables in the dining room.

Scott was talking to the girl, and I heard her tell him her name was Theresa. She had a defiant face on her and didn't look too much like she was going to cooperate. I thought of another girl with a similar name, waiting back home. She was probably wondering where the Hell we were as she put the finishing touches on a Christmas tree that Jelly'd cut down and fixed up in the corner of the great room.

We'd never make it back in time now. I'd never get to experience Christmas with my new family, after all. And Scott- I felt bad for him. He'd been looking forward to this holiday time, talking about gifts and food and things he'd done back home with his family and friends. 'A Christmas just like back home,' he'd said. I was used to doing without the things he took for granted, but he'd been lonely, not for company, but for the Christmas rituals that had been a part of the life he'd left back in Boston. Lonely for traditions. As if he'd heard my thoughts, he patted my arm and said, "Don't worry, brother. We'll get out of this and back to Lancer for Christmas."

"Just like back in Boston, right?" I managed.

"Just like Boston," he agreed. "Snow falling over the green, sleigh rides with the girl next door, skating on the pond on the Commons, eggnog in front of a huge blue spruce, all decorated and standing in the front parlor."

"Sorry. . ."

"Sorry for what? This wasn't your fault, Johnny."

"No." I coughed and took a minute to recover. My voice came out in a hoarse whisper and Scott had to lean close to catch my words. "Sorry. . . no snow. No sleigh, no skating. Might be able to rustle up a girl and some eggnog for you."

He laughed quietly and a little sadly. "We'll be fine. I'll get us out of this." He straightened up and looked at the girl as if he'd forgotten her presence. She was standing there listening, all stiff with animosity.

Taking her arm, he stepped away from the couch. Scott spoke to her in a low voice, accusing her in a terse voice of setting up a man called Montgomery. I knew who they were talking about. Montgomery was a rancher, one of the biggest landowners in the area. He was the kind of hombre who liked to get his own way, who used strong-arm tactics in an off-hand manner, who bullied smaller men easily - not because he relished it but because it came natural to him. It was just the way he did business. Even though we'd had him to the hacienda once for some shindig, Murdoch didn't like the rancher and made a point of avoiding doing business with him.

"No," the girl protested. "You don't know how it is!"

"Then how is it?"

"Victor Montgomery had my brother killed!" she spat.

"Which brings us right back to my point," he said coldly. "You set him up."

"Well, he can be very convincing when he wants."

"Who can?"

Her eyes dropped. She'd said too much.

Scott pressed her for an explanation. "Your brother was a rival of this Montgomery?"

"No, he worked for him. My little brother's own boss killed him!"

A spasm gripped me and I bucked against the pain. I reached out and Scott was there in an instant. I had to hang on to my brother's knee until the cramping eased. I sweated and worked at slowing my breathing, trying to squash the waves of nausea that threatened to overcome me.

"Take it easy. Take it easy, I'm right here," he said calmly.

I don't know if simple words like that can help a man when he's so low, but maybe they do if they come from kin. Maybe it's sorta like a kid who's sick with fever, hearing his mother saying she's nearby, that everything'll be all right. It could just be in the knowing that you're not alone that makes it bearable. Even if you don't really believe the words. I took what comfort I could from them.

The girl was vehemently saying how her brother was just a kid, that Montgomery had had him killed for no good reason. Something about her brother being accused of ruining a deal with loose talk. How it couldn't be true, how her brother was always getting the raw end of the deal. I thought that there must have been more to it than that, even though I've known men who've killed for next to nothing.

"This is no personal vengeance killing," Scott reasoned. "Montgomery's an important rancher, and those two men aren't locals, they're guns-for-hire. Seems like someone is pushing in on Montgomery's territory. What you've done is put us all right in the middle of a range war."

"No! It's because of my brother. They said Montgomery has to pay! That's why."

Someone was pressing a hand hard on my shoulder blade, and it felt like a blade being forced into an open wound. I knew they were only trying to help, but I just couldn't tough it out this time. Protesting, I squirmed to get away, only to be held down by Scott.

"Easy, Johnny, easy," Scott soothed. "I know it hurts, but you have to stay still. We have to stop the bleeding back there. Let me look at your head again, okay?" He adjusted the cloth beneath my head and I winced and closed my eyes when he prodded. Something cool and damp was pressed against my face and I relaxed a bit.

Scott spoke harshly to the girl, which wasn't at all like my brother. "Besides killing for a living, I get the feeling those two men might not tell the whole truth. You understand?"

I heard one of the shooters calling from just outside the door, demanding that Scott return to his table. Scott ignored him, still talking to the girl, every word flooded with urgency. "What time is Montgomery arriving?" She must have refused to answer because Scott's weight shifted suddenly, as if he grabbed her. I heard struggling and found myself becoming anxious. Scott was losing the little bit of control that he had over the situation, and here I was, unable to even lift my head off the pillow. "Theresa, listen to me," Scott pleaded. "If they can do this to my brother here, what about those people out there? Innocent people?"

I could hear the stubbornness in her voice, the refusal to listen. "They wouldn't hurt –."

"Don't be stupid. They might not hurt you, but after they've killed Montgomery, you think they'll let any of us out alive? These don't look like the kind of men who leave witnesses. Let me try to stop this madness. What time is he coming?" he demanded impatiently. "What time?"

"Midnight!" she cried, as if the words were torn out of her.

There was another call for Scott to go out to the dining room. "Lancer! Get out here now!" This time, there was a far more dangerous edge to the demand.

Scott quickly gave orders to Theresa. "Okay, listen. You stay here. Keep him covered and warm. Keep his face cool. If he needs me, you call me back in." His hand touched my shoulder, so very briefly.

"Scott," I croaked, and struggled to open my eyes, but just the girl was standing there, with a stricken look on her face. My brother was gone.

~ • ~


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I awoke with a jerk, unsure of how long I'd been out. The girl hovered, wiping my face with a wet cloth, keeping the makeshift bandage bound tightly about my chest. My back was on fire but there really was nothing she could do to help me.

There was more than just pain now. There was an awful feeling, deep inside, that something was very wrong. I was getting worse by the minute and it scared me. Pain I could handle, most of the time, but this was so much worse than physical agony. I was useless to my brother and to those people out there in the dining room, waiting to be killed. I was overcome by a sense of utter helplessness and despair. Not for my own situation – I was sure now that my own time had come, or it'd arrive real soon.

Without a weapon, Scott stood no chance against those killers. They must have wanted him alive or they'd have done away with both of us on the spot. There was little doubt that he'd end up with a bullet in the head as soon as they had used him to complete their business.

The room next door was as remote to me as if it had been a mile away.

I yelled out my brother's name, knowing it would do no good. "Scott!" My voice cracked but it was surprisingly loud. The girl tried to calm me, but I would have none of it. They had my brother right where they wanted him and they weren't about to let him come back in here again, but I called out anyway, nearly sobbing in defeat. "Scott! Scott!"

The girl looked scared and ran from the room, but I didn't care. Suddenly, Scott was there at my side, holding my arm, checking my wounds. "Yeah, Johnny, I'm right here."

"Scott!" I could hardly believe he'd made it back. "What's going on out there?"

He sat by my side, keeping an eye on the doorway. "Looks like we're sitting on a bit of a powder keg."

"I guessed as much." Joey looked like the kind of guy who was being held on a short leash, and was ready to break free at the slightest chance. "There are no guns anywhere? No weapons of any kind?"

"I haven't had a chance, but I'll try to get a look under the bar."

"D'you know what they want?"

"Those two guys out there are planning on interrupting old Victor Montgomery's Christmas Eve supper," Scott explained. "Looks like he reserved a special table for himself and a lady friend, for midnight. Lockley said something about how Montgomery won't step off his ranch without his bodyguards. Someone's been taking potshots at him. But tonight, for some reason, they figure his men won't be with him."

"Maybe he wants to be alone with his lady friend. These hired guns got some inside information, you think?"

"Maybe. They're the kind to take orders, not give them. Not regulars. Hired for the one job." He sat next to me, but I could see his mind was working on how to get us out of the trouble we were in.

"Why'd they want you out there?" I asked. "Why didn't Joey finish me off?" Scott raised his eyebrows and I quickly added, "Not that I'm complainin'."

Slowly, he said, "I think they want a familiar person out there to greet Montgomery. Good old Scott Lancer, sitting right smack in the center of the cantina, eating a late supper, would give the place the appearance of safety. Montgomery will walk right in at midnight and they'll gun him down, easy as pie. There won't be much time for me to warn him once he's in the door. And I'll probably get caught in the crossfire."

Another round of thunder crashed overhead and the rain didn't seem to be letting off at all. I asked, "What time's it now?"

"Eighteen minutes to the hour."

Not so good. "I seem to recall there was a sheriff in this town last time I came through. Where is he?"

"There's no sign of any law. Maybe he's been paid to look the other way. It could be that nobody knows what's going on out here. This town is mighty quiet."

"Good cover."

"What?"

I coughed again and it sapped my energy. "Can't hear . . . gunshots over . . . storm."

"And when they're finished with him, we're next."

"You really know how to cheer a guy up, don't you? I need a drink."

Scott smiled as he poured water over a cloth. "I do my best. It's my Yankee practicality. Here, suck on this."

When he held it to my parched lips, I turned my head slightly and rejected it. What I needed was a real drink.

"Okay," he acquiesced.

A minute later a mug was held to my lips and I was able to take a few sips of water before exhaustion overcame me and I fell back, gasping. After a moment I asked, "So what're we gonna do?"

"Can you synchronize your watch with mine?" He pulled out his timepiece, a scarred regulation Army watch that he always polished, cleaned and wound up with regularity.

I was lying on my pocket watch and couldn't get to it. Although I could feel it under my hip, I couldn't make my arm move to retrieve it, even though I worked up a sweat trying. My entire right side was numb and it felt like the muscles of my arm had turned to jelly. Chances were, even if I'd been able to get it out I couldn't have focused on its small hands.

Scott saw me struggling. "Oh, hey, Johnny ," he said remorsefully when he realized the poor state I was now in. He unbuckled my gun belt and removed it.

"It's all right," I comforted. Last thing I wanted was my brother to feel guilty, especially if he somehow managed to survive this situation. "I guess this'll teach me I should've gone straight home."

Scott looked devastated for a moment, but he collected himself, carefully dug his hand into my pocket and dragged out my watch. He gently placed it in my left hand, reminding me of the first time I'd held it.

The watch was slightly more battered than when the Old Man'd handed it to me a few months back. I think my father had figured that giving me his watch would get me to conform to the schedule of the ranch. Even now, I smiled at the idea. Owning a watch hadn't been enough to make me run with the herd, but sometimes I would be on time. Sometimes. The timepiece was warm in my left hand. How I wished it were my gun. I sighed, "What do I do with it?"

"All right, this is my idea. It's a long shot, but it's the only chance we've got right now. Joey, the wild man out there, he's wound up tighter than a drum. He's likely to explode at any minute."

"Tell me," I said, trying to focus on the plan. My vision was going downhill, too, 'cause the little hands on the face of the watch were all fuzzy. I could see Scott clear enough; his face was all lit up with anticipation. He was good at planning. You could almost see the cogs turning in his head when he worked out things.

"Think you can handle this?" he asked, holding up the pitcher. "Heave it against that wall?"

I chuckled, which wasn't a great idea as it started off a coughing fit again. I ended up choking. This time, I felt something in my back shift, a brilliant shaft of agony careened right through my chest, then nothing. My right arm was dead but, miraculously, the pain had gone. Some trade-off. "I'll give it my best shot. Just give it to me," I said impatiently, my voice sounding all raspy.

He set the pitcher in the crook of my arm and I cradled it, hoping that when the time came, I could hurl it with the strength needed. Be funny if it just dropped out of my left hand, which was going numb even as we spoke, and went clunk on the floor.

"When you do it, you have to make a lot of racket." Scott looked at me a little bit skeptically. I'm guessing I wasn't looking all that healthy, so who could blame him for wondering if he could rely on me now?

"Racket. Okay. I got it. I got it. Hey, you got any plans after this is all over?"

"It's up to you."

"After we get this all wrapped up–." I swallowed hard, wanting a drink real bad. "We go and knock off a couple of banks in Bolivia. . ." At least I got him to smile. I squinted at the watch's face, damning the numbers for being too small. "Okay tell me when I'm gonna pitch this."

"Five minutes. That'll give me enough time to get back to the table and in position and Joey and Lockley won't know anything is about to happen. It's fourteen to twelve now."

"What if Montgomery doesn't have a timepiece and just comes traipsin' in early?"

Scott didn't hesitate. "Then we're screwed."

As my brother left the room, giving me a last, anxious look, I called out to him- a plea. "Hey, Boston! Next time you want to get the Hell home, don't let me talk you out of it."

~ • ~


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

Luckily the lightning rousted me out of my daze in time for me to see I only had one minute left 'til the appointed time. I raised my head too fast, making the room spin out of control. The watch slipped out of my fingers and it took all my concentration to get a good grip on the pitcher. I counted off the minute and just as I heard voices raised loudly in the dining room, I slung that heavy old can across the room with as much weight as I could muster.

The noise of it careening off the wall, hitting the window, breaking glass and finally landing with a great clang was lost on me. All I could hear was the sound of gunshot and a woman's scream from the other room. I was sure that shot was Joey putting a bullet in Scott, and I knew it was too late.

I wanted, more than anything, to be able to rush into the dining room and face down those killers with my gun, to do what I was best at, just to meet them on equal ground. No way was that going to happen, but I had to do something, even if it meant crawling in there on my belly and working them over with my fists.

Rolling off the couch, I crawled a couple of feet and blacked out.

~ • ~

I came to with Scott kneeling behind me, pulling me up into his lap. "Scott?" I couldn't believe it was him, unharmed.

"Yeah? I'm right here."

"I thought they'd killed you."

He gave a rueful laugh. "No."

"What was the shot?"

"One of the overly-brave customers out there thought it'd be a bright idea to rush Lockley. I had to knock the guy down before anyone killed him."

"You hurt him so he didn't get killed?"

Scott nodded. "Something like that. Johnny, what're you doing on the floor?"

I looked around and sort of wondered that myself. "Thought I'd tunnel out. Go for help." I tried to shift myself up, but when I attempted to lever my body off the floor, my right arm flopped out, useless. My left arm wasn't much better and gave way under my weight.

Scott reached out and pulled my arm back towards my side. "Your arm. . ."

"It's fine." I said lightly. "You get the bad guys?"

"Afraid not. They weren't too happy about me running back here to see you, but I told them if they shot me down, there wouldn't be enough time for them to mop up my blood before Montgomery arrives." He was checking out my flaccid arm, running his hand along it, maybe feeling for a bullet. "You sure your arm's all right?"

"Sure. Told you. Gunfighters get it in the shoulder all the time. Couldn't be better." The odd thing was that I did feel better. Or maybe it'd be more accurate to say I felt very little at all. I don't know why, but at the time, it didn't concern me much. I asked, "How'm I doin'?"

"You look terrific," Scott replied as he worked his hand along each of my ribs on my right side.

"You bet I do." It was plain to see that something was bothering my brother. "Scott?"

"Mm?"

"You looking for the slug?"

He hesitated, then admitted, "Yeah."

"It ain't there."

He was very still and I looked up at him from where I rested across his lap. Even in the shadowed room, I could see his pale blue eyes seeking mine for some answer. "You know where it is, Johnny?"

"I think so." I managed to guide his fingers to a spot between my ribs, high up near my armpit. "Feel it?"

Scott's fingers suddenly stopped their search and I knew he had located the lump of lead beneath the surface. He swore under his breath.

I knew what he was thinking: that if the bullet had entered my back and traveled all the way to my armpit, what on earth had it damaged along the way? "I think it's moved some," I said, stating the obvious.

For a minute he didn't say anything, then asked kindly, "You want to stay where you are, or should I sit you up?"

"You think you can?"

"I'll give it my best shot, cowboy."

"I'll try to help." I strained to get up off my back, but my legs had got all tangled up in the overcoat that'd been covering me while I lay on the couch. Scott carefully hoisted me up until I was in a sitting position, using the couch as a backrest. He was being so careful, I guess he was afraid he might hurt me. Truth is, my head was floating and had very little connection with my body. It was like I was drunk or something. Must have been the crease across my skull. Head wounds tend to make you loopy.

Scott steadied me with a hand on my chest, and watched me carefully. "Just hold it right there," he directed.

I was so weary, yet I knew I had to gather my strength for the next go-around. In only a couple of minutes, all Hell would break loose and if we didn't get the upper hand, somehow, it would be the last few moments we spent on this Earth. With no weapons and no bright ideas, the outlook was grim. "What do you want me to do now?" I asked, closing my eyes. I had to get a grip. I couldn't let go yet.

Scott stuffed a couple of cushions behind me, supporting my head and shoulders. "I'll let you know, okay? Right now, we have them on the run," he answered lightly. "Stay right there and take it easy."

I laughed and it came out sounding like a wheeze. "I ain't going nowhere, Scott."

Scott gave a small nod of assent, then stood and walked across the room. Keeping out of sight of the open door, he leaned tiredly against the wall, head down, eyes on the floor, thinking.

The girl, Theresa, came in, carrying a tray laden with food. Scott didn't even glance up at her as she passed him and laid her burden down on a table. The aroma of soup was strong but I was past hunger.

She went to Scott's side and asked, "How is he?"

Scott glanced back at me, then said to her, with lowered voice, "He can't feel a thing and he has a bullet in him. How do you think he is? And how am I going to get us out if this mess? We've run out of time."

She stared at him for only a second or two, then turned her back on him. The room was dark, but a flash of light from the storm illuminated her face, long enough for me to see a purposeful look on it, alarming me.

With half-closed eyes, I watched her reach under a cloth napkin covering the food. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, then pulled out a gun and pivoted towards Scott.

It was my cry that caused him to turn so rapidly, but my brother stopped in his tracks when Theresa lifted the small revolver and pointed it in his direction.

Her voice wavered as she said, "I don't know who to trust any more. All I know is that someone killed my brother and if I don't do something, you and your brother will be next. And everyone else in this place, I guess. Maybe even me." She suddenly stepped forward and handed the gun to Scott, who took it with a relieved look.

"You did the right thing, Theresa." He brushed past her and kneeled next to me as he quickly looked over the gun.

"I only just remembered it was stashed under the bar," she explained anxiously.

It was only a small hideaway pistol, and even though it looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a year, it gave me a small bit of hope. "That gun looks in worse shape than me," I said, trying to laugh.

Scott agreed, "Older than Hell, and hasn't been cleaned in forever. There are four bullets in it, though. This thing is as likely to blow up in my face, as anything."

"Well, you're always talking about wantin' to know if there's a God."

Scott laughed and reached out to clasp my shoulder. "You know something? You look terrible."

"Don't let me fool you. I could eat a horse. We never got that supper, you know."

Scott moved over to the girl, giving her brisk instructions about how she should position herself near the bar and drop a serving tray to create a diversion. He'd be going for Joey first. She'd better duck behind the bar as soon as she dropped it because Lockley wasn't likely to miss getting off at least one shot. Scott looked excited and almost happy at the prospect of being able to go out shooting.

I had a bad feeling in my gut, experience telling me how the odds were stacked against him. I dropped my eyes, not wanting my brother to know that I didn't expect him to succeed. I didn't want my last sight of Scott to be of him going out to be cut down by those killers. Let his hope carry him proudly into battle.

He ushered Theresa out, then took a moment to crouch down by me.

I couldn't move or speak, or even look him in the eye. I couldn't form the words I wanted to say, the ones he needed to hear. There wasn't enough time. "Scott?"

"Yeah, Johnny?"

I swallowed hard. "I didn't mean it. About you wanting to meet up with God. Not so soon, anyhow."

"I know what you meant, Johnny. And I believe that God is on my side."

Finally meeting his gaze, I knew that even if this ended up badly, I was glad we'd had the chance to know each other. In what little time we'd had together, we'd formed a bond unlike anything we'd ever know with anyone else. Our time was up, though. "See ya," I said, hoarsely.

He stood quickly, tucked the small revolver in the back of his waistband and went out to meet the killers in the next room.

~ • ~

Within minutes, the shots came: one, then two more in quick succession. I couldn't move or even get my breath, with my heart banging away with fear and hatred. I could only think, "Please, please, please. . ." and found I was saying those words aloud.

There were footsteps and a shadow loomed over me. Looking up, it took me a second to realize, unbelievably, that it was my brother, returning to my side. I found I was shaking, and had to close my eyes to try to recoup a small sense of reality. A hand was on my shoulder, and there was Scott, squatting down next to me again, this time reassuring me that everything was all right.

He told me Theresa had thrown her tray down, making a noisy diversion, and Scott had gunned down the two men, killing Joey and wounding Lockley. Everyone else was safe, and the cook, having been released from his wine cellar, was guarding Lockley, with a meat cleaver in hand, until the law turned up. It had even stopped raining.

Scott said he'd heard the sound of hoof beats receding right after the last of the gunshots had died away. "Probably our dinner guest heard the shots and was beating a track for safety," he deduced. "It's all over, brother," he proclaimed with relief.

~ • ~

There's this old Mexican proverb. . .

Now, I'm not given to quoting from books or anything, but this was one of those proverbs that's passed down through a family. My grandmother was not a wealthy woman - far from it- but she counted her blessings all the time. Her riches were not counted in money or property, but in other currency, like children and health, strength and honor.

She used to say, "Never ask God to give you anything." As a kid, I didn't really understand what she meant. I never saw my grandmother again after I was about six or seven, when my Mama took me away, and I really regret not getting to know her better.

As I sat there in that back room, just propped up like a sack of potatoes while the girl was sent off to get the doctor and other authorities, my abuela's words came to me from out of the blue. I said them aloud. My voice was barely audible and Scott had to lean close to catch my words. "Never ask God . . . for anything," I whispered.

"The doctor's on his way, Johnny–." He was telling me to hang on.

One of the Blue Dove Cantina's customers who had come for a Christmas Eve supper and found himself smack in the middle of a shootout stuck his head in the back room, interrupting my brother. "Padre's on his way, too. Thought you might be needing him."

Scott cast the poor man a glare and then turned back to me. "We'll have you home in no time, Johnny. The Christmas tree will be up and lit up with a hundred of those little candles. Teresa will have a feast all laid out. There'll be venison and fruit cake, some turkey with cranberry dressing–."

I shook my head slowly, all I could manage, mouthing the word, "No."

He raised one hand as if to stop my thoughts, and continued, "Sure, I'll get you back to Lancer. You just wait, Murdoch will come downstairs, all decked out wearing that kilt they sent him. . . from back. . . home. . . " His voice was wavering and finally he stopped. "Oh God, Johnny. . . I'm sorry. So, so sorry."

Somewhere deep within me, I was able to find a small reserve of strength. Just enough to lift my fingers, and when he saw it, Scott grabbed my hand. He met my eyes, and seemed to be seeking something important, something he'd missed. I don't know what he saw, 'cause I sure wasn't thinking of much by that point, but he got a sort of stubborn look on his face and went on. "Then we'll get everyone to come here while you're recuperating. I'll send for Murdoch and Teresa and Jelly will come, too. They can haul all that Christmas stuff out in a wagon and we'll set it up and have our family Christmas right here."

"Scott. . . ."

"No, no! We can do it! You can do it, Johnny. Don't you give up now!"

My voice was a little stronger this time. "Scott, no." I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them up to look straight at my brother. This time he didn't say anything. "See, I don't need all that," I said. "I don't need . . . a tree . . .gifts . . .I got all I need. Right here." I was having trouble getting a breath, but I took it slow and continued, keeping my eyes on Scott's without wavering. "Mi abuela . . . she said . . . 'Nunca pida que el dios le dé cualquier cosa.' "

"I don't understand, Johnny." He turned to the padre who had just arrived and was standing in the doorway, appealing to him, "Por favor. I don't understand . . ."

I touched Scott's sleeve and he turned back to me. Smiling, I repeated what my grandmother had told me so many years ago. I told my brother, my kin, what I had never understood so deeply, so truly as I did now. "There's this old Mexican proverb. . . 'Never ask God to give you anything. Ask him to put you where things are.' " I watched his face to make sure he understood, then I closed my eyes.

Somewhere, not far away, the hollow sound of a church bell ringing could be heard, announcing the start of Christmas Day.

~ • ~


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to everyone who left comments. There are a lot of guests whom I can't thank individually, but I appreciate getting feedback and knowing people are still interested in my stories. Although I don't write Lancer fanfiction any more, I do have a few 'old' stories I'll be adding to this site.

**Chapter 5 - Epilogue**

_Thus stand I on the brink of this new year,  
Darkness upon me—not the work of fear.  
Powerless I know to check the river's sweep,  
Powerful alone my own soul's truth to keep._  
~ Frederika Richardson Macdonald

The two Lancer men sat with Teresa at the kitchen table, eyeing each other warily. Murdoch huddled over his cooling cup of coffee like a dog protecting a juicy bone. Scott was pushing the remains of his breakfast around his plate with a fork, avoiding his father's gaze.

Teresa looked slowly from the older man to the young blond one sitting across from her, noting how handsome his mouth was, even when set in a stubborn line. She took a breath and carefully pointed out, "You know that putting this off isn't going to make it any easier."

Scott shifted his gaze from his curdling eggs to his father, then turning to Teresa, asked sharply, "You think that any part of this has been easy?" He stood quickly, his chair legs noisily scraping along the tile floor. With palms flat on the tabletop, he leaned over the clutter of breakfast dishes, and challenged his father. "Has it been easy for you, Father? Don't you think that it's time you took some responsibility and handled this situation? He's your son."

Murdoch slowly raised his eyes to angrily meet the blue ones of his oldest son. "Don't you come in here and judge my actions, young man." He stood up to meet Scott. "If you think for one minute that you're the only one who has suffered here this past week, then you––."

"Hell's afire! You two quarreling again?" Jelly strode in and placed himself between the two Lancer men. "Hasn't there been enough suffering here? Ain't you got no respect?" Placing a hand on each of the men's shoulders, the old wrangler said in a quieter voice, "How about you just shake and make up? This is no time for the family to be divided like this. You're like a couple of bulls facing off at the watering hole in the middle of the dry season."

Scott looked sheepish and backed away from the table, arms crossing his chest. Murdoch put out his large hand, offering it with a sorry expression on his weary face. "I don't know what's got into me these past few days. I'm not inclined to lash out in times of trouble. Must be getting old."

"Sorry, I was out of line, sir," Scott said as he accepted his father's handshake. "Temper got the better of me. Must be the strain."

Jelly made a satisfied noise. "See there? We've all been a bit out of sorts since, well since… poor Johnny. . ." His words came to a halting stop as he glanced up at the ceiling, then took out a large handkerchief and mopped his eyes.

Teresa looked relieved that the two men had regained control of their runaway emotions. "Good. That's settled. No more quarrels, all right? We're all disappointed that Johnny couldn't be here for Christmas. But you did the right thing and brought him home." She squared her shoulders and stood between the two Lancer men, a head shorter than either of them. "So who is going to do it?"

They both hesitated for a minute. It wasn't that they didn't know what needed to be done– it just hurt so much to see Johnny like that. It was Scott who slumped his shoulders and agreed, "I will, then." He took a breath as if accepting a challenge and waved off Murdoch as he opened his mouth to speak. "No, I said I would take care of this and so I will."

As Scott moved over to the sink and filled a bucket with warm water from a large kettle on the stove, Teresa went to assist him. She gathered up a sponge, some towels and soap, and placed them in an empty bucket. When she started to follow him from the kitchen, Scott brushed her off, not unkindly. He said in a gentle voice, "Teresa, this is no job for a young lady. I can do it alone. I think I owe this much to my brother."

"Scott," Teresa said in a hushed voice. "I could help if you like. I helped wash the body of my father when we prepared him for his casket. . ."

Placing a hand gently on the young woman's shoulder, Scott smiled a little and shook his head. "No, I'm his brother. I'll do it. Taking care of him is an honor, really. He saved my neck plenty of times."

She took a step back, acknowledging his right and his need to do the task at hand.

Scott hesitated at the door as Murdoch met him, reaching out to touch his arm. "Scott, son, you know I'm not shirking––."

"No, Murdoch. I can handle this alone. I know that if it weren't for you, Johnny never would have made it this far. It's due to you that he found a place here at Lancer to really call home. He told me that more than once, you know. You made all the difference."

Murdoch seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment. He held onto his son's sleeve, then released it, saying huskily, "I can still come up with you."

"No. I want to do this," Scott said, nodding in assurance. With a bucket in each hand, he passed by the entryway to the great room. The morning was dull and all of the curtains were still drawn from the previous night. The fireplace was cold and no lamp had been lit. In the dim light he could make out branches of holly, colored paper chains and large swags of greenery adorning the room. The spruce tree, covered in glass balls, candied treats and other ornaments was only a dark mass, hovering in the corner, a forlorn reminder of a Christmas that had been no cause for celebration.

As Scott hesitated, looking sadly at the unopened gifts sitting around the tree, Jelly passed him and drew the curtains back with a flourish. "Time we got a little bit of light into this place, don't you think?"

Scott just nodded at the wrangler and made his way upstairs to the room at the end of the hall. The door to Johnny's room was closed. He braced himself and then entered.

~ • ~

Placing the bucket of water and the one containing the washing cloths on the floor near the door, Scott slowly approached the bed. He stepped forward quietly, his eyes on the still figure that lay shrouded in a sheet with only the head exposed. Standing with his knees barely touching the bed, Scott just looked down at his brother.

Johnny's hair was pushed back from his pale forehead, the furrow from Joey's first bullet evident along the hairline. Although the bleeding had stopped long ago, there had been considerable bruising down the entire right side of his face. Johnny's eyelashes were dark against colorless, drawn cheeks, the stubble shadowing his slack jaw giving his face a gray look.

Scott could see the edge of the bandage that wrapped around Johnny's chest and shoulder, just above the edge of the white sheet. He pictured their own doctor re-bandaging the wounds, mumbling under his breath as he spoke placating remarks to the waiting family; false words that had held no hope.

Scott was suddenly overcome with emotion, his eyes shutting to keep the tears at bay, his hand rushing to his mouth to stifle the sound of grief. How could a simple stop for a meal at a wayside cantina have wrought such terrible consequences?

Shaking off his feelings of regret and anger, the blond man ran his fingers through his hair and heaved a great sigh. He had to get on with the job he'd come up here to do, and he would do it without complaint. As he turned to retrieve the bucket of water, a whisper of a voice spoke to him from the bed.

"Scott? What's the matter?"

In an instant Scott was back at the side of the bed, leaning over his prone brother.

"Johnny! Johnny, I didn't know you were awake," he replied in a hushed voice. "Nothing's the matter. I just came up to see how you are, and if you're in a better mood than you were earlier."

Johnny blinked several times, then stared up at Scott as if he couldn't recall what he was talking about. His slightly puzzled look changed to one of realization, his features hardening. "I'm fine, I guess," he said offhandedly. He coughed once and seemed to be gathering his strength. "As fine as can be expected," Johnny continued more loudly, "considering the way you hauled me all the way back here along what had to be the rockiest road in the county, then had that sawbones mess around with me again. I'm bound up tighter than a turkey, what's going on? You got something in your eye?"

"What? No. Maybe some of the porridge you threw at me early this morning."

"I threw porridge at you? Oh yeah. I wasn't really awake. Well, what're you giving me that pap for anyhow?" Johnny eyed the washing-up items that his brother was holding, seeing them for the first time. "What's that stuff for?"

"I have to wash you, Johnny."

"No you don't. How about some real grub?"

There was an obstinate look about his brother's mouth that Scott didn't like, but at least there was some color coming back into his cheeks. "I'm afraid I do," Scott said as he raised a hand to stop any further speech from the invalid. "Now, before you cause another ruckus, can you let me speak?"

Johnny sighed and looked away peevishly. Scott took that as a sign of acquiescence and continued. "The doc didn't want to bother you by cleaning you up properly, after all you've been through, but the truth is, brother. . . you reek." When Johnny opened his mouth to protest further, Scott spoke over him. "No wash-up, no food," he warned firmly.

Johnny looked away for a moment, then replied decisively, "No porridge. Tastes like cement."

Scott tried not to smile at the bargaining. He was just glad that Johnny had enough life in him to quarrel, much less want to eat something. "It's our forefathers' national dish. We should have an appreciation for it running through our veins."

"More like tequila and enchiladas." He hesitated, then added, "Sorry I messed things up this morning. I didn't really mean to toss that bowl of porridge all over you." He moved his left arm from under the sheet and held it out, examining it, flexing his muscles. "I feel sorta clumsy, but at least it works. Better than this one," he added, peering down at his right arm, hidden under the bedclothes. Johnny pulled back the sheet to expose his right side.

His torso was swaddled in linen bandages and a sling held his right arm close to his body. It was bent at the elbow so his forearm rested across his belly, with only his hand exposed. Johnny wiggled his fingers and a look of relief came over his face. He reached over with his left hand and experimentally touched his ribs, but found a tender spot under his arm and grimaced. "I seem to remember someone cutting the slug out." He looked sharply up at Scott. "My arm, it's okay, isn't it?"

Scott shook his head. "I don't know. It may take time to heal. Doc said the bullet tumbled around a bit in there. Johnny. You're just lucky to be alive."

"Yeah I heard some talk about me having next to no chance." He looked up at Scott and asked, "I guess I ruined some folks' Christmas, huh?"

"I think we both did, brother, but that's not what's important. You're home now and it looks like you're doing a lot better than expected, so. . . ."

Johnny was concerned about the fate of the guns-for-hire. "We sure ruined Joey's Christmas. You said you killed him, didn't you? What about Lockley?"

"In custody," was Scott's terse reply. No matter how necessary it might have been, the firing upon another man was not something he felt good about. "Lockley's been taken to the county jail to await trial."

Johnny looked around his room, taking in his surroundings as if getting his bearings. "What day is it? I seem to have lost track."

Scott had to think for a second before replying, "It's January first." Johnny looked surprised so Scott explained the events that had followed the shooting of the two gunmen, back at the cantina. "We got you to Montgomery's home, the doctor took care of your wounds and I sent one of his cowhands to tell Murdoch what had happened. You were in pretty bad shape when he arrived, along with Isidro. Once he got there, though, you seemed to get better and in no time you were complaining and wanted to be home. The doc sort of let us take you after a few days. We got here last night after making a two-hour trip in seven hours. The wagon we borrowed was lined with straw and a feather mattress, but it was still difficult to keep you from hurting. I regretted it after only one hour, to tell you the truth. But early this morning you woke up and obviously felt a whole lot better because you hit out at the bowl of porridge and . . .well, that brings us up to now."

Johnny looked nonplused, and admitted, "I don't remember any of that. Just waking up feeling lousy and being sort of mad that you were trying to feed me that stuff. Whatever happened to the meal we ordered at the cantina?"

"I don't think we were ever served. Too bad, because I really wanted to taste some of that wine. Do you recall being taken care of in Montgomery's home?"

Johnny searched his memory and asked tentatively, "Were there a whole lot of furry faces on the walls or was I a bit out of my head?"

Scott laughed aloud. "Montgomery offered to put us up, even if we ruined his family's Christmas. He knew he owed us his life and his whole family was very accommodating. The house was a great big place, close to town, overstuffed with furniture and decorations of every kind, including a huge collection of taxidermied animals. Apparently, Montgomery's wife is an avid hunter. Mounted deer, elk, and small stuffed creatures sitting on every surface." He shuddered theatrically.

"Oh, so I wasn't dreamin'." Johnny looked relieved. "I thought I'd died and gone to some Hell inhabited by wolverines and moose and they were gonna get me with their sharp little teeth. Get me up now, will you?" He looked up at Scott, who had gone still at his words. "What did I say?"

"Nothing." The tall blond gave a sudden grin. "I don't think that moose have sharp little teeth. You sure you want me to sit you up? Are you strong enough for this? I still need to get you washed, Johnny."

"Sure, maybe roll me over so I can put my feet on the floor and I'll be all right."

Scott slowly eased his brother into a sitting position, making sure that Johnny was able to stay upright before removing his arm from about his shoulders. A couple of suppressed groans came from the wounded man, and his breath was a little labored, but he seemed intent on sitting up. With eyes closed and lips compressed, Johnny remained seated on the edge of his bed, slightly bent over, coping with his pain.

Scott waited to see if raising his brother had been such a bright thing to do, and eventually Johnny's eyes opened. He took a deep breath and looked up at Scott. "I've got to ask you something. Did I die back there in that cantina, do you think?"

Sitting down on the bed next to his brother, Scott took the time to consider his reply carefully. Should he make his words sugarcoated, tell Johnny that he was never really in danger of dying? Or tell him the truth – that all hope had gone? In the end, there really was no choice. Johnny knew the truth and just wanted to hear it from his brother. "I thought you were almost gone by the time the doctor arrived," Scott said in a low voice. "You weren't fighting it, Johnny. You told me you never asked God to give you anything." Struggling to retain his composure, Scott added, "Well, I sure as Hell asked for something. I begged."

Johnny looked down at his right hand, clenching it into a fist. "I can feel it fine now. Maybe I need the pain to remind me I'm alive, 'cause back there, when I couldn't feel anything, it was. . . like I had no body. Like I had nobody." He met Scott's eyes and smiled a little. "I'm sure glad you asked. How about we get me cleaned up all pretty and you ask Murdoch and Teresa to come and visit for a spell?"

"And maybe we'll bring up some of those Christmas gifts that are still under the tree."

Grinning, Johnny said, "Happy new year, Scott."

"Happy new year, Johnny."

~ • ~ the end ~ • ~

_Thanks for reading!_


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